Archimedes Principle
by Keesha
Summary: This is another entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March's challenge, themed "Idle Hands". What do our boys get up to during their downtime? This tale can stand alone from the first story called 'Never Too Old to Learn'.
Author's Notes:

This is another entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March's challenge, themed "Idle Hands". What do our boys get up to during their downtime? This tale can stand alone from the first story called 'Never Too Old to Learn'. Eventually I hope to get through all four musketeers and then a few guests, but that will take a while.

As always, not mine, just playing and please comment. My awesome beta JenF makes the story readable and I am always grateful for her help.

If you want to enter the challenge, check out the forum Fete des Mousquetaires. Always fun to have lots of entries. The competition will open on March 1 and close at midnight on March 31.

"It really is quite amazing," Aramis remarked, with a touch of awe, as he watched Porthos sink like a stone below the water's surface, once again.

Aramis shifted his focus from the river to the pacing musketeer on the bank. Frustration was evident in every movement Athos made; his striding back and forth along the shore, his erratic breathing as he tensely waited for Porthos' head to reappear each time and the repetitive slicking back of his unruly hair to keep it out of his eyes. The marksman reached out and grabbed his friend's bare shoulder, as he paced by for the hundredth time. The medic in him absentmindedly noted that Athos' shoulder was warm, most likely indicating a sunburn was in the works. The former Comte momentarily halted, glared at the hand on his shoulder impeding his progress, and then coolly stared at its owner.

"Maybe he is right. Maybe he simply can't float," Aramis mildly suggested, which only served to earn him a withering glower.

Shaking the offending hand from his shoulder, Athos resumed wearing a path in the sand at the river's edge. On some level, it amused Aramis to see his usually placid friend so animated. Normally, Athos was extremely stoic, a trait Aramis had always admired in his friend. Athos had the ability to stand guard for hours on end, sit like a statue at the back of the room, and blend in so well that he became one with his environment. But all that self-possessed poise had gone out the window today, courtesy of the man in the river who couldn't seem to get the basic mechanics of floating.

"He can float! Everyone can." Athos made another pass around his little worn track in the ground. "Any object, wholly or partially immersed in a fluid, is buoyed up by a force equal to the weight of the fluid displaced by the object."

Aramis frowned in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Archimedes Principle. Greek mathematician." As Aramis still appeared puzzled, Athos tried to clarify, "As long as the water Porthos' body displaces weighs more than he does he can float."

Athos rolled his eyes when it was apparent Aramis still wasn't following. Never daunted by a challenge, he tried again. "He's got air in his lungs, correct?"

"I certainly hope so," Aramis replied, lackadaisically. "Though it would be comforting if he came to the surface soon," he added with a little apprehension creeping into his tone as he scanned the river.

Athos completed another lap around his track. "The air in his lungs will cause his body to naturally rise to the surface, so he'll float."

Aramis thought he detected ripples on the surface of the water where he believed Porthos had sunk. "So everyone can float? Are you sure?" A small sigh of relief escaped his lips when he saw the dark curly head pop out of the water.

"Yes. Actually, no. There are a few people, very few, who can't. But it is not normal." Athos halted and watched Porthos rise out of the water, stand, and shake his head sideways to rid his ear of water. "He's not special. He can float."

"I don't think Porthos would appreciate the fact you don't think he is special." Aramis tried to keep the smirk of amusement off his face and out of his voice knowing it would simply add to Athos' annoyance, which would do no one any good. "Could you at least consider the idea he might be one of the very few people who can't float?"

"No." With that, Athos stomped into the water, plowing through it, a man on a mission, until he reached where Porthos and D'Artagnan stood. A conversation ensued, which Aramis could not hear, but the result had D'Artagnan heading for the shore and Athos staying in the water with Porthos. As the Gascon emerged from the river, he shook his long hair sending droplets of water flying everywhere.

"Another reason we call you pup, pup," Aramis stated, as he brushed a few stray drops of water off his arm. "You shake like one and you smell like a wet dog too."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." With a sly grin, he gave one more vigorous shake of his shaggy head.

Aramis scowled at the lad before refocusing his attention on the two musketeers in the river. "Didn't seem to be going well out there."

"Porthos is trying," the lad shrugged, "but he sinks."

The two men on shore watched with mild curiosity, as the two men in the water held an extended conversation with one of them talking and the other developing a glazed look in his dark brown eyes.

"I wonder what Athos is telling him?" D'Artagnan pondered, as he continued to watch the one-sided conversation, otherwise known as a lecture.

"I think our dear, well-educated Comte is explaining the Archimedes Principle to our brother."

"Whose what?" D'Artagnan asked, as he turned to look quizzically at the marksman.

"Archimedes Principle. Thought up by some dead Greek. It says...well...ah...I might have zoned out a bit when Athos was explaining it to me earlier. Bottom line is Porthos should be able to float because he is not special. Athos' words, for the record, not mine. I think Porthos is very special."

After Porthos sank three more times in rapid succession, Aramis and D'Artagnan walked a few meters from the river and made themselves comfortable on the grass, leaning back against a fallen tree trunk. They companionably sat side-by-side and watched the duo in the water.

"Do you think Porthos will haul off and hit Athos at some point?" D'Artagnan inquired with curiosity, as he plucked a blade of grass to nibble on.

"While Porthos is the betting man of our group, in this case since he is otherwise occupied, I will step into the role and give you two to one odds."

D'Artagnan nodded to indicate he accepted the bet.

Another fifteen minutes passed and then it came to pass as D'Artagnan predicted. They could hear Porthos' growl even from where they were seated. The guttural noise was followed by a large splash as the fed up street fighter wrapped his long, muscular arms around Athos, lifted, and then flung him into the river.

"That's interesting," Aramis noted, as they waited for Athos to reappear on the surface of the river.

"What's that?" D'Artagnan leaned forward, debating whether he needed to go rescue his mentor.

"Well," Aramis drawled, "our illustrious leader doesn't seem to be floating, in direct defiance of Archimedes Principle. Maybe he's special...oops...nope...there he is."

Meanwhile, Porthos hadn't waited to see if Athos floated to the surface and instead began to wade to the shore. Athos rose from the depths of the river spluttering and shaking his head, trying to clear his field of vision, which was somewhat obscured by his wet hair hanging in his eyes. Once he got his personal hygiene issues resolved, he discovered he was standing alone in the middle of the river, which apparently didn't make him happy judging by the way he tore after Porthos and tackled him from behind. Both men disappeared, again, under the water's surface.

D'Artagnan selected a new blade of grass to chew on in contemplation. "Athos is usually much more patient when it comes to teaching. I have seen him show remarkable restraint with the greenest of recruits. And yet this," he waved his hand at the river where the two men were still MIA, "seems to have strained his patience."

The two men's heads popped out of the water for enough time to gulp in a lungful of air before sinking back into the murky depths.

"It's not that teaching Porthos to swim has worn Athos' patience thin, but rather this whole assignment from the Captain. I think Athos wasn't happy that Treville didn't agree with some of his suggestions for suitable skills to learn. And, if you recall, teaching our privileged Comte to cook was quite the disaster."

In the river, the heads made another brief appearance then disappeared from the radar once more.

"Well you have to admit it was imaginative of Athos to suggest he'd instruct us in the art of getting drunk," D'Artagnan said, with a sly grin.

"My dear boy, you totally missed the whole point of that discourse. The objective was not to teach us how to get drunk, but rather how to successfully function the next day after imbibing too much, something our friend has definitely mastered."

D'Artagnan's hand lightly brushed over his rib cage. "You have to admit, Athos did provide Captain Treville with an excellent example of when it would have been a useful skill in regards to a mission."

Aramis gave a knowing smile. "When he pretended he was going to kill his wife and shot you for effect. He went for full authenticity by not faking being drunk."

"Hmmm, and in doing so, he shot me in the side, not the hand, as we had planned."

"But Athos did explain his rationale for changing where he shot you."

The Gascon gave him a skeptical quirk of his eyebrow.

"Which may not have been totally truthful. But you do realize how hard that was for him. The humiliation and shame he felt having his past laid bare like that for all to see. I don't think he could have made himself go through with it unless he was drunk."

The heads popped out of the water, but quickly went under as Porthos body-slammed Athos, knocking the man off his feet.

D'Artagnan watched his friend and mentor disappear under the water again with a frown. "He doesn't deserve what she did, what she does to him. Why can't he let her go? Why does he still punish himself?"

"Because on some level he still loves her and I suspect always will. His honor and conscience say that it's wrong, but his heart doesn't always listen. But," Aramis continued, trying to lighten the somberness that had settled over the duo, "Athos was right when he argued with Captain Treville that there was a practical use for knowing how to fight when drunk and hungover. And it is a skill which our friend is most qualified to teach."

"You got that right. Athos fights nearly as well hungover as he does sober."

"But alas, our Captain still felt it would be a bit awkward to explain why his four best musketeers were getting plastered every night in the name of education. And I must confess I'm happy not to have to deal with the aftermath. How he does it so often..." Aramis' voice trailed off, sounding sad.

D'Artagnan stared at the river again, which showed no signs of life. "If neither surface do we go rescue them or simply walk away and disavow any knowledge of what transpired here?"

They both grew quiet as they pondered the lad's question, but before they had to finalize their decision, two heads broke the surface.

"Oh well," Aramis mockingly sighed, as he climbed to his feet. "Next time, perhaps."

Ambling down towards the water's edge, Aramis patiently waited as the two wet and disheveled men trudged wearily out of the water. "Your lip's bleeding," he pointed out to Athos, as the man drew near.

The tip of the swordsman's tongue poked out of his mouth to explore the split in his lower lip, tasting the blood welling forth. His storm cloud face grew even darker, as he used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood. "In the water, now," he commanded, glaring at Aramis and the Gascon who joined them.

"Why?" Aramis complained, as he eyed his irate friend. "The object of this exercise was for us, in our spare time, to teach each other skills we might not possess. I already know how to swim, thank you very much."

Athos' hands rested on his slip hips and if he had been wearing his sword, Aramis had no doubt the man's hand would be on the hilt, debating if he should draw it. "You can use more practice," Athos growled at Aramis. ''You have no endurance. In the water, now." Each word was clipped though clearly enunciated. "Twenty laps."

"That was not the Captain's intent, I assure you. He said nothing about building endurance, only learning a new skill."

"And it was supposed to be your turn to teach a skill, not mine," Athos reminded him in a surly manner.

"I told you. I am still refining my idea," Aramis explained with a little wave of his hand. "I won't be rushed."

Then the magic transformation occurred. Athos always held himself with an edge of unspoken authority and even people who didn't know him tended to defer to his implied leadership. However, when he purposely took the leadership role, which his friends called 'putting on his Comte', pity the fool that tried to cross him. "Water. Now. Thirty laps."

Aramis' eyes grew wide with dismay, as he threw his hands in the air. "You said twenty not thirty laps. You've gotta be joking!"

"He doesn't look like he is kidding and if you don't shut up he's gonna increase the laps again. Come on, Aramis. It will be fun. It's hot and the water will be refreshing," D'Artagnan enthusiastically declared, as he clamped his hand on the marksman's shoulder and propelled him towards the water.

"You have a warped sense of fun," Aramis grumbled, as he waded into the river with the lad.

"And no cheating on lap counts or I'll make you start over," Athos yelled after the two before they dove into the water to start swimming.

Porthos had moved off to one side and stood, slightly hunched over, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," Athos apologized, glancing at his ailing brother. "It was not my intention to strike you...there...but the water was murky, I was disorientated, and my aim was...off."

Wincing, Porthos nodded his head to show he accepted the concession. "Well, I suppose it didn't help that my hands were wrapped around your neck choking you at the time."

Unconsciously, Athos' hand crept up and rubbed the base of his neck. "You were the one that taught me to fight dirty." After pausing a moment, he deadpanned. "Therefore, I retract my apology."

Very carefully, Porthos lowered his body onto the ground and arranged his limbs in a comfortable position, as he watched his two brothers swimming their laps. Plaintively, he looked up at Athos, who was still standing. "I'm really tryin'."

With a small apologetic smile and a nod, Athos ran a frustrated hand through his wavy, wet hair, pushing the wayward strands out of his face. "Pick up the pace," he demanded of the swimming duo, not that they could probably hear him, but it gave an outlet for his vexation.

By the time the two had finished their laps, Porthos and Athos had been dried by the sun and were not appreciative when their brethren felt the need to exit the river and drip on them. The two plopped on the grass next to the dry men and let the sun work its magic on them too. Aramis was happy to see that Athos had thought to pull his shirt back on and save his fair skin from the burning rays of the sun. Still, the man was going to be hurting tonight from the amount exposure he had received and the medic made a mental note to offer Athos a cooling salve made from aloe.

It seemed every year they went through the same routine. When the weather turned nice and Athos' fairer toned skin got exposed to the sun's rays, he'd burn, unlike his brothers whose natural skin tone was more suited for the sun. Eventually, Athos' skin would darken enough for him to be able to withstand being in the sun all day, but it took time. But while that base tan was being built, his brothers had to deal with Athos' sunburns and his disgruntlement that accompanied each event. Aramis had tried to explain to Athos if he was simply a bit more careful, allowing his skin to gradually acclimatize, he could avoid the burns altogether. But the swordsman, who was patient in so many matters, had none for his own well-being and expected his body to simply adjust and do so quickly.

When all four men were sufficiently dry, they dressed, gathered their horses who had been enjoying their grazing in the nearby lush grass, and headed back towards Paris and the garrison. As they rode along, Aramis watched Athos squirming uncomfortably in his saddle.

Pushing his mount to move up alongside of Roger, Aramis said, "I'll bring by the salve tonight. It will help."

A sideward glance and a curt chin dip told him the message was received and on some level appreciated.

Over the course of the next two weeks, the weather remained hazy, hot, and humid. Porthos and Athos rode off on their own numerous times and returned wet and unhappy. Aramis and D'Artagnan stayed away, not wanting to get caught up in the madness that was Athos trying to prove the Archimedes Principle. They had learned the hard way that Athos took out his frustration at not being able to teach Porthos to float on them in the form of excessive lap swimming.

Ironically, Athos had been able to teach Porthos to swim fairly well. The swordsman was confident that if the larger man ended up in the water, he could safely make it to the shore. Floating, as it turned out, was not a requirement for swimming. Yes, it made it a bit easier, but a few simple adjustments to one's technique and one could successfully swim even if they sunk like a rock when trying to float. Athos had worked with the street fighter, modifying, and adjusting his strokes and soon had Porthos swimming.

However, for some reason, Athos took it as a personal affront that he couldn't figure out how to get Porthos to float on his back. Long after the idle hands lesson of swimming was wrapped up, Athos would still drag Porthos to the nearest body of water and try a new theory, which always ended the same with Porthos doing his impression of a sinking rock.

Athos had even gone as far as to petition Captain Treville to let them make the four day journey to Dieppe, which was situated by the sea. The swordsman had explained to his Captain, in excruciating detail, the Archimedes Principle, the theory on buoyancy, and the fact that salt water weighs more per unit of volume allowing a person to float more easily. Athos was confident the salt water would be enough to counter Porthos' rock-like tendencies. The Captain had listened, politely, managed not to yawn, and nodded in all the right places. However, once again, he shot down his Lieutenant's idea saying he didn't think it was appropriate to send the King's musketeers on holiday to Dieppe to swim. The Captain assured the swordsman if they ever had to go on a legitimate mission that had them near the sea, and if the Inseparables wanted to go swimming, he'd have no objections. But he wouldn't send them there simply to satisfy Athos' bizarre crusade.

Within the blink of an eye, Athos had regrouped and suggested that there had been rumors of pirates and that it would be appropriate for the King's musketeers to ensure France's coastline was not about to be overrun by marauders. Treville had, once again, marveled at how the former Comte, whose sense of duty and honor was so strong it literally defined the man, could lie like a rug. Athos rattled on about pirate sightings in such an intense and sincere fashion he nearly drew the Captain into his web of deceit. But Treville yanked himself loose from the sticky strands and ordered Athos out of his office with the admonishment not to bring the subject up again.

His second had stalked from the room only holding his annoyance in check because the Captain was his superior. But Treville pitied the first person who crossed Athos' path for they would receive the full fury of his pent up wrath. To his credit, Athos managed not to slam the Captain's door as he exited. However, he did pound down the stairs like a herd of elephants, muttering under his breath the whole time. A quick sweep of the yard found his three brothers lounging at their usual table and he stomped towards them.

"Oh boy," Porthos moaned, looking at the storm cloud that was approaching them. "This ain't good."

Aramis, who was tracking the same storm, started to rise from his seat. "Whatever he was talking to the Captain about didn't go well," he correctly surmised. "I think a hasty retreat is in order."

D'Artagnan, who had his back to the approaching tornado, didn't appreciate what his brethren were saying until he turned and saw Athos. When he glanced back to make a comment to Porthos and Aramis, the two had already slunk off leaving him to face the angry Athos alone.

"What happen to 'all for one'?" D'Artagnan grumbled, as he pasted a smile on his face and turned back to face Athos, who was standing at the table practically vibrating with annoyance.

"Spar. Now."

"Do you really think..." but the lad let his voice trail off when he saw the determined glint in his mentor's eye. There was no way he was going to talk the man out of sparring. "Of course," D'Artagnan sighed, as he rose from the bench all the time cursing the two musketeers who had abandoned him to face their fourth alone.

The sparring went as D'Artagnan expected with him being soundly beaten repeatedly by Athos who was clearly working out his anger issues on the boy. The Gascon saw a few new moves that he hadn't seen in Athos' arsenal before and tomorrow he'd have the bruises to prove it. Finally, the swordsman called a halt to the brutal session and D'Artagnan couldn't help giving a small sigh of relief that didn't go unnoticed by his instructor.

"Was I pushing you too hard?" Athos questioned, though D'Artagnan could detect no hint of regret in his mentor's tone.

With the disarming grin that he did so well, D'Artagnan said, "Honestly? Yeah, you pushed me hard, but I learned a lot."

The two made their way over to their favorite table and the lad poured two glasses of water and pushed one in the direction of the sweaty Athos.

"For example," he continued after emptying and refilling his glass, "when we first started, you were tense, and it showed in your fighting style. But as you relaxed, your thrusts and parries became more fluid and, I might add, more dangerous and effective."

Athos, who had been sipping from his cup, hooded green eyes studying the boy over the rim of the glass, suddenly slammed the vessel on the table with a force that rattled the other dishes on the wooden structure. D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat, as Athos stalked around the table to where he apprehensively stood wondering what the hell was going to happen.

Surprise didn't adequately convey what he felt when Athos' reached out, grabbed his shoulders, and then pulled him into a hug. All his brothers knew Athos was not a tactual man and to find himself enveloped in bear hug with the swordsman was a bit discombobulating for the boy, who had expected something of a more violent nature.

After he released the shocked lad, Athos gave a fond ruffle to the Gascon's hair before turning on his heel and stalking off leaving D'Artagnan confused. He had no idea what had just happened, but it seemed like it was a positive thing. "You're welcome," he called after the retreating man who, if he heard him, didn't acknowledge it.

Shaking his head, D'Artagnan finished his water and then strolled away to find his missing brothers. He had a bone to pick with them for abandoning him. When he was done making his irritation at their desertion known, he would then relay the story of the bizarre hug and seek their advice on the event, which had left him, unsettled. It was simply not Athos.

Later that night, when the three of them, sans Athos, were sitting at a table in their favorite tavern, D'Artagnan related the story of the hug.

"You weren't hurt? He wasn't hurt? And he hugged you?" Aramis sought clarification, clearly not comprehending the Gascon's tale.

"I swear. No injuries. Well other than a few bruises on me, not him. I, of course, never landed a hit," he replied with a touch of frustration for it was an ongoing battle for him to try get a 'kill' on his mentor.

"And he wasn't drunk?" Porthos inquired, as he refilled all their glasses with wine.

Shaking his head, he responded, "Nope. Was only drinking water."

"Oh then that explains it," Aramis firmly declared, as he picked up his wine and sipped. "Athos, drinking water. He clearly was ill. Probably delusional. Speaking of which, where is he?"

As if the question had made the man materialize out of thin air, Athos came through the door, spotted them, and walked over to the table. Before he even sat down, he grabbed the bottle of wine, poured a glass, and drank it as if it was a shot of whiskey. Refilling the glass, he dropped into the open chair next to Aramis.

"Heard you hugged the pup today, Athos." Porthos grinned at his brother, who looked distinctly uncomfortable under his hat brim, which was pulled low over his forehead. He might have been blushing, but with his sunburn, it was hard to tell.

When Athos declined to comment on his unusual behavior, the conversation moved on to other topics. D'Artagnan, who was always the lightest drinker of the crew, stopped before he was intoxicated and merely sipped as he watched his brothers continue to pursue the path of intoxication. Aramis, too, bowed out slightly short of intoxication. However, Athos and Porthos plowed onward and in fact, it seemed like the swordsman was going out of his way to get his brother plastered, even forking up the funds to switch from wine to harder liquor.

When Porthos was definitely drunk, but still able to walk, Athos grabbed him by the arm saying there was something very important he needed to show him. The two, in a rather unsteady fashion, wound their way out the tavern's door into the darkened streets of Paris.

D'Artagnan and Aramis glanced at each other in confusion and then by unspoken consent hurriedly arose to trail after their two brothers to ensure they didn't get into trouble. Surprisingly, given their intoxicated state, the two men had disappeared quickly and it took a while to locate them. By the time Aramis and D'Artagnan managed to catch up with their brethren, Athos and Porthos were wading into the river Seine in their braies, the rest of their clothes and weapons lying nearby on the bank.

"Dear God," Aramis half-prayed, half-swore when he saw what was going on. "Athos, what the hell are you doing?"

The water was up to their waists by this point and as Athos turned to address Aramis' question, he stumbled and disappeared under the water.

Before D'Artagnan could even move, Porthos had the presence of mind to reach into the murky depths and haul his brother to the surface by his arm. Athos broke the surface spluttering, but clearly not deterred from whatever he was trying to do, drunk, in the Seine.

Apparently deciding it was no longer a priority to answer Aramis' inquiry, Athos shoved Porthos towards the middle of the river and the deeper water. Luckily, there was a full moon flooding the river with its bluish white glow so the two musketeers on the river's bank, as well as everyone else in Paris, could see the two drunk elite guards frolicking in the water.

"Captain Treville is going to kill us if they drowned or worse, if they are spotted by someone. How will he ever explain that to the King?" Aramis moaned out loud. "Do we go in after them?"

Before the lad could frame a reply, they watched in horror as Athos suddenly placed his hands on Porthos' broad chest and shoved the man backwards, toppling him into the river. It was less than five seconds later, through it felt like an eternity to the two shore-bound musketeers, before Porthos' body popped back to the surface floating on his back!

"Is he..." the Gascon gasped, unable to complete his sentence.

"Floating?" Aramis supplied. "Damn. I believe he is!"

They watched, dumbfounded, as the man who hadn't been able to float, bobbed like a cork, albeit somewhat drunkenly, in the moonlit river. Athos, apparently satisfied that his mission was complete, waded in a slightly haphazard manner to where Aramis and D'Artagnan waited on the river's bank. When he drew near, the Gascon lent a hand to help the inebriated man negotiate the obstacles on the bank so he didn't end up face first on the ground.

Flinging his wet hair out of his eyes, Athos toppled sideways into Aramis, who reached out to steady him. An amazingly smug smile was painted all over Athos' face. "See. I told you he could float," he slurred, as he gloated. "Everyone can. Just needed the right...moto...mo... to..."

"Motivation?" Aramis suggested, as he tried to get the soaked man, who was clinging to him to like a barnacle, to stand on his own two feet.

"Ex...act...ly," Athos answered in an interesting mix of a slur drawl. He swayed into Aramis' chest again, dripping water on the unhappy man who took action and forced Athos to sit on a nearby log.

Docilely, Athos allowed himself to be manhandled onto the log, while staring at what he seemed to consider his greatest achievement, at least tonight, Porthos contently floating on his back in the river Seine. "Told you," he crowed. "Everyone floats. He was too tense. Made him sink. I relaxed him."

"You got him drunk and threw him in a river!" Aramis scolded his brother, who was oblivious to the censure of the marksman's words.

"And it worked."

"He could have drowned!" Aramis continued with his reprimand. "And you were in no condition to save him."

As if in answer to that accusation, Athos leaned over and vomited a mixture of alcohol and river water on Aramis' boots.

Aramis let forth with a string of curses before directing D'Artagnan into the water to drag Porthos ashore before he drowned.

"Why me?" D'Artagnan whined, as he began to remove his weapons.

"Well I can't send him in," he said glaring at the man, who after vomiting had passed out in the sand.

Aramis neglected to explain as to why he couldn't go into the water to get Porthos and D'Artagnan simply sighed, finished stripping, and headed into the river to drag Porthos ashore.

Getting one large drunk and one smaller, unconscious, drunk musketeer home was an interesting challenge especially since Porthos usually did the heavy lifting for the group. However, they succeeded in making it to Athos' place where it was decided they would spend the rest of their night. When everyone had been suitably divested of their weapons, boots, and enough clothes to sleep, they settled in to sleep.

Two days later found the four musketeers watching, with mild interest, as their Captain rode through the gate, handed his black stallion's reins to the stable lad, and then approached the table where they resided. After a vigorous morning of sword fighting and hand to hand, the quad of tired, weary men had retired to their favorite bench to replenish and rest. Aramis and Athos sat on one side of the table, while Porthos and D'Artagnan sat across from them. Treville stopped at the head of the table and let his eyes wander over his men. Aramis politely poured the Captain a drink and slid it in his direction. It was sweltering and the midday sun had barely crossed its zenith.

"Hot day," Aramis remarked casually, as the Captain stood there and simply stared, making the four musketeers slightly nervous.

Eventually, he picked up the glass and after taking a sip from the cup he'd been offered, the Captain placed it back on the table, resting his hands on his weapons belt. "Yes, it is unpleasantly warm. I'm surprised you aren't off practicing your swimming." His blue eyes came to rest on Athos, silently commanding the man to answer, who of course, remained mute.

"Well Captain," D'Artagnan piped up, trying to fill in the awkward silence that was growing increasingly uncomfortable as the commander and his second simply stared at each other. "We can't spend all our time goofing off. We are musketeers. We must constantly drill to remain fit enough to defend our King and Country."

With a slight look of exasperation. Treville flicked his eyes to the boy for a second. "I see your mentor has been drilling you in more than just swordsmanship," he remarked drily.

The lad ducked his head a little with embarrassment, as Treville let his cool gaze sweep the four men again. "Rochefort caught my ear on the way out of the palace. It seems there is a rumor..." his eyes swept the four again, "that two nights ago four drunken musketeers were swimming in the river Seine."

"Weren't swimmin'," Porthos muttered under his breath. "Were floatin' "

"What was that, Porthos?" The Captain's stern gaze zeroed in on the largest musketeer, who suddenly grabbed a roll and devoted all his concentration to devouring it.

"I believe he was questioning why musketeers would be in the river at night." Athos gave the Captain that slightly puzzled stare he had perfected so well, the one that the Captain had come to learn meant the man was in avoidance mode. The Captain settled his eyes back on his second and prepared, verbally, to spar.

For his opening salvo, the Captain went with the obvious. "Would you know anything about this rumor?"

"Did Rochefort personally observe this rumored incident?" Athos returned fire with another question, ignoring the fact he was supposed to be answering, not questioning, his leader.

"No. He did not. But he did stress it was a very prevalent and well-founded rumor. So I ask again, have you heard this rumor?" The Captain winced when he realized he had made a tactical error allowing the enemy an escape route.

"No, I have not heard the rumor. Well, not before you mentioned it," Athos replied, doing an outstanding job of keeping his voice even and not gloating at being handed such an easy out.

The Captain's arms clenched tighter over his chest. "Perhaps I need to start this conversation again. Were you four swimming in the Seine two nights ago?"

"Swimming? No." Athos answered his voice cool and detached.

"You never make this easy for me do you, Athos." Treville sighed wearily, unfolding his arms and running his hand over his face in frustration. "But you four were at the river."

Athos conceded that point. "Yes."

"And you four were drunk."

"D'Artagnan and Aramis were not. Porthos and I, yes."

"And you were physically in the water."

"Yes."

Sighing, the Captain pinched the bridge of his nose, aggravated that once again his four best musketeers were caught doing something utterly ridiculous. "Why?" the Captain asked with great reluctance because history had shown him the four musketeers would have a good excuse, or at least what they considered a good explanation.

Athos, of course, was the one that offered up the rationale in a calm, dispassionate manner. "We were following your orders to learn new skills from each other during our idleness."

"But l already asked if you were swimming and I distinctly recall your answer being no," Treville challenged his second in command, as he refolded his arms over his chest.

"Because," that infuriating smooth voiced man answered, "we weren't swimming."

Tempering himself from screaming, Treville asked in a tight voice, "Then what _were_ you doing in the Seine?"

Surprisingly, it was Porthos who answered and rather proudly. "I was floating!"

The Captain stared unbelieving at his musketeer. "Drunk, in the middle of the night, you were floating in the Seine? And somehow you thought this was a good idea?"

"Better than the time we shaved and painted the Red Guards," Porthos mumbled under his breath.

"Yes, Captain. I will confess Porthos' seemingly inability to float was driving me to distraction because, unlike Aramis,'' Athos let his gaze shift for a moment to the romantic musketeer, "I believe everyone can float. The fact that Porthos seemed unable was vexing me."

"Keeping you up at night, it was?" the Captain questioned, sarcastically.

"As much as anything, yes. I thought my instructions were clear and concise, yet he kept sinking like a rock."

Porthos frowned a bit at being compared to a rock, but Aramis reached across the table and gently patted his forearm in sympathy.

"It was D'Artagnan that hit upon the solution," Athos continued the tale.

The former Comte gave a nod of recognition to the lad who suddenly looked concerned wondering if Treville was going to blame him for this mess. "What did I do?" D'Artagnan managed to squeak out.

"The lad noted I fought better when I was relaxed. That being tense was not productive," Athos explained. "Then it dawned on me that the same was true for floating. To float, one needs to be relaxed. Because Porthos did not feel comfortable in the water, he always tensed up and that was causing him to sink."

"So you decided the best way to get Porthos to relax was to get him drunk after which you took him to the river, naked, in the middle of Paris, in the dark, to see if he would float," the Captain concluded.

"Captain. I wasn't totally naked," Porthos defended himself as if that was the sticking point in Treville's speech.

Athos gave his commander one of his infuriatingly smug 'but of course' shrugs. The Captain stood silently surveying his men before shaking his head, turning, and heading for the stairs that led to his office.

"That's it?" D'Artagnan blurted out in disbelief. "You're not punishing us?"

"Shut up, pup," Porthos growled, menacingly.

The Captain stopped for a moment to turn back and sadly gaze at them. "Would it matter? I have yelled at you, made you muck the stables for weeks on end, confined you to the garrison, taken away your leave, docked your pay, yelled at you..."

"You already mentioned that last one," Aramis pointed out.

"Because I have yelled at you more times than I can count. Yet despite everything I do you four still go out and get yourselves in trouble. It is very tiring trying to explain your antics first to the Cardinal and now Rochefort. And God help us all when the King gets wind of one of your harebrained escapades like the melon. So I am simply going to quietly leave, go to my office, and let you gentlemen to ponder upon what you have done."

Good to his word, he walked up the stairs and disappeared into his office, leaving the four stunned musketeers sitting at the table.

"I think," Aramis said slowly, "I like it better when he yells at us. This, somehow, feels worse. Like we have sorely disappointed him."

Athos didn't offer up an opinion, D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, and Porthos gave an indifferent shrug.

"But," Aramis added, suddenly feeling a whole lot more cheerful, "I'll take this over mucking out the stables any day." He raised his glass and saluted his brothers. "So whose turn is it next?"

THE END

Sort of…

If you want to know the story of shaving the Red Guards, it is in Herding Cats.


End file.
